


music is the strongest form of magic

by sheisraging



Series: little windows [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Cooking, Dogs, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Music, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:09:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4838090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheisraging/pseuds/sheisraging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The playlist thing had started out as a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	music is the strongest form of magic

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few flashback scenes that take place at earlier points in the series, so for reference, primarily the flashbacks are happening before _twenty questions_ , hence the use of the & in addition to the / in my tags up there. There's also a small bit that takes place sort of in the middle of _home is the nicest word there is_.
> 
> Much thanks to [Ignited](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited) and [Sheafrotherdon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon) for the beta reads.

The playlist thing had started out as a joke. Anytime Sam got offended by a lack of music knowledge on either of their parts, he'd swipe whichever phone was easiest to grab (usually Steve's) and build an obnoxiously titled playlist that he felt would rectify the problem. Bucky's particularly fond of such titles as _There Was Music After 1943_ , _My Mama Is So Disappointed in You_ , and _Songs to Get Dem Boots Knockin'_  — not that they've ever needed help with that last one, but Bucky appreciates the sentiment and how hard he and Steve had laughed upon finding it.

Eventually, they start seeking out new music on their own, much to Sam's delight, and creating their own playlists — both for themselves and for each other.

Steve tries to be thematic with his naming conventions in order to give Bucky room to choose whether or not he’s in the mood for that particular style. Bucky, however, tends to be entirely random, with most of his titles chosen based on whatever he happened to be thinking about or doing at the time he was listening to that particular list. Sometimes it’s obvious ( _Laundry_ , _Jacuzzi on Sundays_ , _Can’t Sleep_ ) and sometimes…

"Why _Pizza_?" Steve asks one morning. He stands at the kitchen counter scrubbing a towel over his wet hair with one hand and holding his phone in the other.

"I was listening to that list a few weeks ago when I tried to make pizza at home," Bucky shrugs, not looking away from the stovetop where he’s currently frying up eggs and bacon for their breakfast. "Thought you might like it, too."

Steve snorts, letting the towel drop around his shoulders and leaning his elbows on the counter to keep scrolling, "How would I ever know what to expect?"

Bucky reaches over and places a mug of coffee in front of Steve then turns back to the stove. "Some of them are more obvious," he replies with a quiet laugh.

"Mmm," Steve hums in agreement.

\---

"Nice!" Sam exclaims when the Jackson 5 starts playing over the backyard speakers. "Which one of you finally developed some taste?"

Bucky nods at Steve. "Syncing off his phone tonight."

"All right, all right." Sam switches his beer to his other hand and reaches toward Steve. "Lemme see what else you got."

"Buck, it’s in my pocket," Steve turns slightly from where he’s flipping burgers on the grill and indicates the pocket at his left hip.

Bucky huffs a put upon sigh, but smiles as he heaves himself from his lounger and slides up behind Steve. He reaches a hand into the pocket of Steve’s shorts and makes a show of feeling around while Steve squirms and laughs. He finally digs the phone out, planting a kiss on the side of Steve’s neck before dropping himself back into the chair and handing the phone off to Sam who just grins and shakes his head.

Sam scrolls through the current playlist, aptly titled _Steve’s Summer BBQ Songs_ , and nods his approval. Taking a long swig from his beer, Sam continues scrolling and eventually hits something that makes him start coughing and sputtering in an attempt to not spray beer all over himself.

"You’re doing it right now, huh?" Bucky says with a wide grin.

Sam coughs several more times as Steve comes over with a handful of napkins and a look of concern.

"Doing what?" he asks, taking the phone and beer Sam hands to him in order to accept the napkins and clean himself up.

"Picturing you naked," Bucky supplies casually, taking the soiled napkins from Sam as he finishes and the coughing quickly dissolves into laughter.

Steve looks down at his phone and rolls his eyes. "Jesus. Really?"

"I thought I’d try to be more direct with the playlist titles. You know…" Bucky shrugs, "So you’d know what to expect." He nods at the list Sam pulled up titled _For Picturing Steve Naked_.

"Why would I need a playlist to picture _myself_ naked?" Steve asks.

"I guess you don’t, but I just felt like you should hear it because those songs are just… really fitting," Bucky says, scratching his head.

Sam drags both hands over his face, "I swear to God, Barnes, if I am never able to listen to _Born to Run_ ever again without picturing Steve naked, I will kill you."

Steve gives his best Captain America pose, hand on his hip, nodding his head with a point and a wink at Sam.

Bucky gives him two thumbs up and grins.

"Rogers, you cut that shit out right now," Sam says with a grimace.

Steve laughs. " _Born to Run_?" he asks, "Isn’t that Springsteen? How— I don’t even…"

"I don’t _know_ ," Bucky exclaims, "It just works."

"A rock n’ roll classic forever cemented in my mind as the song my friend jerks off to when he pictures my other friend naked," Sam laments, taking his beer back from Steve.

"No, that’s a different playlist," Bucky states very matter of factly, "This one’s just for picturing."

Steve cocks an eyebrow and starts scrolling through his phone. "What’s the other one called?"

"All I know is that _Let’s Get It On_ better be on there, or it ain’t worth shit," Sam mutters, pushing out of his chair to grab another beer.

\---

_Steven G. Rogers — Greatest Hits: A-Sides_ is one of Bucky’s favorites — Steve can tell from the play count. He’s proud of that, having carefully curated it, though it’s essentially nothing more than the rotating list of songs he often sings in the shower. It turns out, however, that about two weeks or so after he’d put it on Bucky’s phone, Bucky had managed to swap out all of the original songs with recordings of Steve actually singing them in the shower and those are the versions he’s really been listening to. 

"Why would you want to listen to that over and over again?" Steve asks, laughing.

Bucky shakes his head and looks at Steve like he’s lost his mind. "Why _wouldn’t_ I?"

The look on Bucky’s face only makes Steve laugh harder. 

\---

_Apple Pie and Dick Pics_?" Natasha raises an eyebrow as she scrolls through the music on Bucky's phone.

Bucky smiles brightly. "That's the playlist you were asking about the other day, Sam."

Sam points finger at him and another at Natasha before she can open her mouth, "I did not ask you anything about that playlist. In fact, I believe I asked you not to ever mention it to me again so that I could try to maintain some kind of wholesome illusion of an American icon from my childhood."

"Speak of the devil." Bucky grins as Steve walks through the front door and lets Roscoe off her leash. 

Steve rolls his eyes. "My ears were burning," he says and gives Bucky's shoulder a squeeze as he walks past the sofa to fill the dog's water bowl.

Natasha's lips curve into a barely disguised grin. "So do the dick pics accompany the songs? You know, like album covers or—"

"I mean, I have about twelve pictures of Steve's dick on my phone at any given time," Bucky reasons. 

"Only twelve?" Steve feigns disappointment as he drops down on the sofa beside Sam. "Are they at least the good ones?" 

"Lord, just... Take me now. Please, I'm a good man. I don't deserve this," Sam says to the ceiling and anyone else who's listening. 

"Don’t worry, Rogers," Natasha says with a casual flip of her hand. "He only shares the good ones."

Steve lifts an eyebrow at Bucky, who just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. 

"All right boys," Natasha says, flipping Bucky’s phone back over to him and clapping her hands together, "I believe I was promised a barbecue."

"Oh, do we finally get to eat now?" Sam says with a wide grin. 

"You know, I’m startin’ to think you two only come out here for the food," Steve jokes, pushing himself up and heading toward the kitchen. 

"Wait, was there another reason?" Sam ribs, trailing Steve out of the room.

Natasha swats at him as he walks by and then gets up to follow, pausing in front of the fireplace on the way. "I like this," she says, tracing a finger over the framed sketch that sits on the mantel. "I always forget to mention it when I’m here."

Bucky quietly gets up and walks over to her, picking the frame up and looking at the rough sketch with a faint smile.

"Steve drew it," he says, running a thumb along the edge before setting it back down.

"Who are they?" Natasha asks, tilting her head at the unfinished faces of the dancing couple in front of a Christmas Tree. 

Bucky shrugs, the corner of his mouth quirking up just slightly. "Not sure. I just really liked the sketch."

\---

There are a few playlists that precede the running joke. They’re not stored on either of their phones — Bucky didn’t have a phone back then. 

In one of his first sessions, Bucky’s therapist suggests adding music to his at-home therapy work as both a relaxation technique and a possible memory aid. He goes back to his room at the Tower and digs out the iPod he’d swiped off a table at a coffee shop while he’d still been out on the streets. The only music on it belongs to the original owner, so he wipes it clean and stares at the empty library trying to figure out how to relax and remember.

He does some research, downloads a bunch of different songs and dumps them into a playlist called _Untitled 1_ — all of it being the kind of music he figures his parents would have played in his house when he was a child. It takes a few tries before anything happens, but eventually, Bucky’s able to let himself loosen up enough to close his eyes and listen without being on hyper alert. 

The first memories are fleeting — he can’t see either of their faces, but he can hear his mother’s laughter, see the sweep of her blue dress as it twirls, he knows the memory is from when he was very young, a moment he’d observed and held onto because he was never meant to have seen it — should have been asleep on Christmas Eve, but instead was crouched down, watching his parents dance in front of the Christmas tree. 

Bucky listens to the same song on repeat over and over again hoping that more will come, but there are only ever those few seconds — the twirl of blue, the peel of laughter, their two heads bowed together as their feet move in circles on the floor. There is no-one who can complete that moment for him, no before and no after. After two weeks of nothing more, frustrated with the process and with himself, he shoves the iPod into a drawer and decides the therapy isn’t working.

"I wish I could hold on to it," he tells Steve, "They're like movie scenes I can't finish. I just wanna take a picture or… something. I don’t know. It’s like I can’t… go forward. I can’t…"

He scrubs his hands over his face and drops his head onto the table.

Steve’s hands are hesitant, reaching out and pulling back as he wrestles with not knowing what’s okay and what’s too much. His mouth creases at the corner, but he tries just the same, gently laying his hand over both of Bucky’s and squeezing. 

"You just started, Buck. Give it time," his hand lingers for a moment, thumb drifting curiously over the metal joints in Bucky’s knuckles. He gives Bucky's hands another squeeze and gets up. "You'll get there."

Bucky sighs heavily and nods into his elbow. "Thanks," he mumbles, and pushes himself away from the table and over to the sofa.

That night, when he goes to his room to get some sleep, Bucky finds a small sketch on his bed. His parents, dancing in front of the Christmas tree — no more and no less detailed than what he'd described to Steve earlier. 

Bucky swallows thickly and props the sketch up on the nightstand beside his bed. He thinks about getting up and going to Steve’s room to thank him, but instead he pulls the iPod out of the drawer and sets it back on its charger. It’s a few more days before he’s ready to try again, but eventually, he puts the music back on. 

\---

It’s a slow process, and frustrating, as most of his recovery has been. Things come back to him in waves and then in the briefest of flashes — not enough to sort into the fractured timeline of his past. The old songs, laced with static and scratched tinny voices lull him to sleep at night. When he closes his eyes, before drifting off, he can picture himself in his mother’s kitchen, his sister laughing as she chases him down the hall, and every now and then, the briefest flashes of his parents passing through the rooms of his house. 

A blur of curly hair and pink cheeks eventually takes shape and Bucky remembers Rebecca — sitting on the stairs and tying her shoe, holding his hand as they walk down a street. He remembers his father coming through the front door and rubbing a hand through Bucky’s tousled hair, and finally, he remembers his mother’s face — her kind eyes and calloused hands as she cups his chin and kisses his forehead before sending him out of the house to play. He cries a bit, when it finally happens, and despite feeling almost selfish about it, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t, he doesn’t give Steve more than a vague passing description of that memory. Fuzzy images, blurred lines, nothing like the sharp recall he actually got. Bucky keeps his mother to himself, something in him feeling as though he should be able to remember her — now that he has — with no more assistance required. 

_Untitled 1_ leads to _Untitled 2_ through _Untitled 11_. Steve listens quietly as Bucky tries to describe the tumble of memories that come to him. He doesn’t try to fill in blanks, for which Bucky is grateful, and only nods in confirmation if Bucky questions whether he’s remembered something correctly, but for every time Bucky tells Steve something new he’s remembered, Steve leaves him a drawing. His mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, his father placing hat on the rack by the front door, his own left arm slung over Steve’s bony shoulder, Rebecca petting a stray dog in an alleyway near their house, Dugan’s drunken face creased with laughter, looking down at the sharp lines and angles of his new left hand. Some have more detail, some are a bit rough depending on what Bucky has been able to recall. Steve never draws more than what Bucky describes, just tries to give him a snapshot of the memory to hold onto. 

Bucky makes notes on the back of each sketch — the time and date he recalled the memory, the song he was listening to, his best guess at when it originally happened and any other details he can remember about the particular moment in the drawing. He keeps the sketches in a box beside his bed, looks at them often, hoping that one memory will lead to another until eventually he doesn’t need them anymore. 

\---

Some of those old songs have made the leap over to his new collection, but for the most part, Bucky doesn’t listen to the untitled lists anymore. Most of the gaps have been filled in and he’d rather look forward than back. As his recovery progressed and his memories came back more easily, the box of sketches was tucked away on a shelf.

It’s not until they’ve moved out to their little cottage house that he thinks of it again — a sudden panic in the middle of the night at the realization that he doesn’t know where it is.

A little bit of quiet digging through the few unpacked boxes still piled up in the living room and Bucky finds what he's after, corners a bit dinged up from the move, but otherwise safe and sound. 

He flips the lamp to the dimmest setting and slumps onto the sofa, running his fingers over the lid before lifting it and tossing it to the floor. The sketches are in a neat stack with his old iPod sitting on top, a pair of earbuds still wrapped around it. 

"Hey," Steve's sleep-laden voice startles him. "You okay?"

Bucky takes a deep breath and tilts his head against the sofa to peer back at Steve shuffling into the living room. "Yeah, just… couldn’t find this," he taps the side of the box, "Couldn’t get it out of my head ’til I did. It’s fine. Should go back to sleep."

Steve flops down beside him with a small ‘oof,’ digging his fists into his eyes like an over-tired child. _Like he did as an over-tired child_ , Bucky recalls with a fond grin. Steve pulls his hands away and squints one eye at him. 

"What’s funny?" he rasps, smiling curling his lips.

"You’re face," Bucky teases, giving a playful shove at the side of Steve’s head. 

Steve grumbles and tilts sideways until his head hits the armrest. 

"Steve," Bucky tries, pushing at Steve’s thigh. 

"Yeah," Steve half mumbles, half yawns.

"Steve, get up."

"Hmm?"

"Go back to bed," Bucky tries again. "You’re a big baby when you don’t sleep well."

"M’not," Steve mumbles, twisting over onto his back and pulling his legs up onto the sofa. 

Bucky rolls his eyes, lifting the box as Steve makes a pleased noise and stretches his calves across Bucky’s lap. Once Steve is settled, Bucky rests the box on Steve’s legs, reaching in to shift the iPod over and pull out the bundle of sketches. 

"What are you looking at?" Steve slurs.

Bucky looks up and sees that Steve’s got his eyes closed, arm tucked behind his head, might as well be sleeping. 

He pinches lightly at Steve’s big toe, "Shh," he whispers, "Sleep."

"A’right, ma," Steve mumbles back.

Bucky can’t help letting a quiet snort escape as he shakes his head. He flips through the drawings, pausing every now and again to turn one over and read the notes he’s scribbled across the back. 

He gets to the bottom of the pile and finds the first sketch; Rough lines across the page, his father’s hand at his mother’s back. Her head turned to his cheek, no detail in either of their faces. Bucky runs his finger along the edge of the page. He can see their faces clearly now, remembers the dark curl of his mother’s hair and the curve of his father’s smile. He closes his eyes and sees them dancing slowly in front of the tree, the tinny sound of radio music drifting through the room. 

Bucky takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. He slides the other sketches back into the box, setting the iPod back on top and then carefully leans over to put the box and the sketch of his parents on the floor beside the sofa. Steve squirms a bit when Bucky moves, mumbling something unintelligible and shifting until his right foot slides out of Bucky’s lap and drops to the floor. Bucky gently scoots out from under Steve’s other leg and turns, crawling up the sofa. Steve startles awake and eyes him blearily, then wraps both arms around Bucky’s waist and pulls him down.

"I was gonna suggest we both go back to bed," Bucky murmurs against Steve’s jaw. He digs down and slides his palms under Steve’s back.

"Okay," Steve whispers, but doesn’t open his eyes. Bucky chuckles quietly when he feels Steve bring his right leg back up, wrapping around the back of Bucky’s left calf to hold him in place. 

\---

"I can’t move," Sam groans from where he’s laid out on the living room floor. "I think I’m dead. Am I dead?"

Natasha digs her foot into the back of his thigh, lifting slightly and dropping it. "You’ll live."

"Not well," Sam grimaces.

"At least you died happy," Steve offers, stepping over him as he picks up dishes to bring back to the kitchen.

"Wilson, get up," Natasha commands, digging her foot under Sam’s backside this time. "We have clean up."

"Nat, you don’t have to—" 

"We _do_ , Rogers." She quickly waves Steve off, taking the stack of dishes from his hands. "We’re your guests. You guys cooked, fed us," she shrugs "We clean up. It’s etiquette."

"You know they’ll still invite you over if you don’t clean, right?" Sam quips, "Is it proper etiquette to challenge your house guest to a wing eating contest and watch him die?"

"Only if he’s dumb enough to accept," Bucky replies as he casually licks barbecue sauce from his fingers.

Sam rolls his head to the side and glares, "Man, how are you still eating?"

Bucky gives Sam a confounded look and pulls his thumb out from between his lips with a smack, "It’s delicious."

"Thanks, Buck," Steve grins.

Bucky winks in Steve’s direction before sinking his teeth into another chicken wing.

"Man up, Wilson," he says around his next mouthful. 

Sam grunts pitifully in response and heaves himself up off the floor. 

"Wilson, let’s go!" Natasha yells from the kitchen. 

"I’m comin’, I’m comin’," Sam yells back, swiping a wing from Bucky’s plate as he passes.

"‘Hey!" Bucky sputters, making a grab for Sam’s hand. 

Sam tears a chunk off with his teeth and smiles at Bucky before chewing.

"I’mma let the dog lick those dishes," he whispers, pointing his chicken wing menacingly.

"You’re a spiteful man, Sam," Bucky calls after him. 

"Here," Steve is standing beside the sofa holding a wet towel and biting back a grin. "You’re a mess."

"He dared me first," Bucky says, pointing a sauce-covered finger back toward the kitchen.

Steve nods. "I know, but you’re gonna be cleaning barbecue sauce out of your hand for a week."

Bucky shrugs, taking the towel, "So, I’ll be delicious," he smiles at Steve and wipes his mouth before going to work on his hands. 

"You’re already delicious," Steve sighs, flopping onto the sofa. He stretches one arm out behind Bucky’s shoulders, lets his head fall back and closes his eyes. 

Bucky finishes cleaning his hands and tosses the towel onto his plate. "’Scuse me, we need some table service in here!" he calls over his shoulder.

Steve’s grinning with his eyes closed. "He’s gonna moan about this until the end of time, you do know that."

Sam comes muttering into the room a few seconds later, arms covers in suds from the dishes. He glares at them both. "I’m only doin’ this ‘cause that woman will kick my ass if I don’t."

Steve nods. "The important thing is that you’re man enough to admit it."

"Etiquette my ass," Sam mutters. "I’m a man in pain."

"I’d do the dishes at your house," Steve offers.

"You would?" Sam smiles.

Steve shrugs. "Sure. It’s only fair."

"Thanks, man," Sam smiles. "If you hadn’t indirectly caused my death by chicken wings, that would mean a lot."

Steve’s shoulders shake from laughter as Sam heads back to the kitchen. Bucky slouches against him. 

"Nat liked your sketch," Bucky says quietly.

"Hmm?" Steve picks his head up, a crease at his brow as he looks over at Bucky and then toward the mantel. "Oh. I didn’t realize she hadn’t seen it before. Hasn’t she been here since—"

Bucky’s already nodding. "Said she always meant to say something."

"Ah," Steve nods as well. 

"She asked who they were," Bucky says, a slight tilt of his head toward the drawing. "I told her I didn’t know."

Steve’s hand weaves into Bucky’s hair and pulls him close until their heads lean together. 

"There’s so much that’s just… out there. Manila folders or online," Bucky shrugs, "I just wanted to keep something. Is that weird?"

"No. It’s yours," Steve turns so his lips press to Bucky’s temple, "You don’t owe that to anyone, Buck."

Bucky nods, lets out a deep breath and turns his face up toward Steve. He brings his left index finger up to Steve’s mouth, tapping gently on his lower lip until he smiles and presses a kiss to the pad of Bucky’s metal finger, then swipes at it with his tongue.

"Mmm," Steve hums. "You _do_ taste good."

Bucky lifts an eyebrow, "Kinky, Rogers."

"This had better not be your idea of dessert," Sam interrupts. "I like my apple pie without the dick pics, thank you both very much." 

"I thought you were full," Bucky teases as Steve laughs into his shoulder. 

"And dead," Natasha supplies, following Sam into the room with Roscoe trailing curiously behind her. 

"I think she likes you, Nat," Steve grins.

Natasha turns and looks down at Roscoe, who immediately stops and sits at her feet, looking up expectantly.

"I think she thinks I have food," Natasha determines, but scratches behind Roscoe’s ears before reaching for her bag. 

Roscoe circles the floor wagging her tail and giving off quiet huffs of excitement as Natasha and Sam get ready to leave. Bucky uncurls himself from Steve so they can get off the sofa to say good-bye while Steve corrals Roscoe over to her bed to calm down. 

Bucky pulls Natasha in for a hug and kisses her cheek. "Thanks for coming," he says quietly. "And for doing the dishes."

"Thank you for having me." Natasha pats his back with a soft laugh. 

"Anytime," he says, giving the top of her head a quick peck before letting go.

Bucky turns and extends his hand to Sam, who takes it and pulls him in for a hug and pounds him on hard the back.

"Next time, I’m cooking," he says when they pull back.

Bucky nods. "So you can dirty up all the dishes in your house before we get there and try to tell us we’re on dish detail? I don’t think so."

Sam laughs and shakes his head. "You say that now, but neither one of you have tried my pulled pork."

"Sounds promising," Steve chimes in. He claps Sam on the shoulder and pulls him in for a hug, "Maybe you’ll live long enough to see dessert next time."

Sam pulls back and points a finger at Steve, but Steve’s already turning away with a wry grin.

"Come back soon." Steve manages to make it sound like both a question and a statement. Natasha eyes him with a small curl at the corner of her mouth, leans in, wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes.

Steve hugs her close and kisses the top of her head as she pulls away. 

The second the front door has shut, Steve is running across the floor and grabbing his phone. Bucky lifts an eyebrow, turning and slowly trailing after him. 

"Steve?"

"How high do you think the volume will go on the outdoor speakers?" he asks, rapidly scrolling through his playlists.

Bucky presses his face against the back of Steve’s shoulder and laughs when _Let’s Get It On_ starts blasting at maximum volume outside the house.

Steve looks up, face splitting into a huge grin. He holds up his hand, five fingers extended wide, nods, and starts counting them down: 5-4-3-2- Just before he gets to one, Steve’s phone lights up. He holds it up so they can both read the message:

_Sam: I hope you’re happy when your neighbors vote you off the island._

Bucky shakes his head against Steve’s shoulder and laughs. He snakes his hand under Steve’s arm and around his waist, taking the phone and switching the music over to a lower volume on the indoor speakers before any neighbors can actually bother to complain. He tosses the phone onto the sofa and lets his hand rest low on Steve’s belly, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of Steve’s jeans.

Steve grins and leans back into Bucky, just slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other so they start to sway in place to the music. 

Bucky’s fingertips are drifting suggestively lower when Steve drops his head back onto Bucky’s shoulder, opens his mouth and loudly belts, _"We are alllll sensitive people…"_

Bucky snorts loudly against the side of Steve’s head and shoves him away, laughing. Steve keeps singing, voice breaking with laughter, and catches his hand pulling him back in so they’re chest to chest. 

"Way to kill the mood, Rogers," Bucky smirks, but slides his hands up into Steve’s hair anyway. 

Steve quiets, cocks an eyebrow, and reaches down until both hands are palming Bucky’s ass then breaks into a wide grin, _"Let’s get it on."_

Bucky rolls his eyes, presses both hands to Steve’s chest and shoves him back onto the sofa.

Still laughing, Steve opens his mouth to continue, but Bucky crawls into his lap and kisses him quiet before he can get a full word out. 

\---

Steve arrives home from a three-day mission in the middle of the afternoon. The house is quiet, save for the spin of the washing machine. He dumps his bag in the bedroom, his laundry in the hamper, takes a shower, and is ambling into the kitchen to hunt for lunch when the door to the spare bedroom nudges open and Roscoe comes padding over to him. 

He frowns a bit, craning his head toward the doorway when he squats down to scratch behind her ears. Roscoe laps a few lazy kisses onto Steve’s forearms and meanders over to the sofa, hopping onto her favorite cushion and settling in. 

"Buck?" Steve calls out and is greeted with only silence. 

He approaches the spare room and gently pushes the door all the way open. Bucky is sprawled on the floor with his eyes closed, his clunky over-ear headphones are on his head. His left hand rests on his belly, while his right is slowly tracing lines on the floor, obviously matched to whatever beat he’s listening to. 

Just beside him is the box he keeps his memory sketches in. Steve hasn’t seen him look through it since they first moved in and Bucky decided to put the sketch of his parents up on the mantel. The box lives in the spare room closet, along with Steve’s art supplies and other various household extras they have lying around.

Steve’s about to turn away, pulling the door along with him when Bucky’s eyes blink open. He pushes the headphones off and sits up.

"Hey," Bucky says with an easy smile, he crosses his legs, making room and patting the floor in front of him for Steve to come sit. Steve pushes away from the doorframe and settles himself in front of Bucky, mimicking his cross-legged pose so their knees bump lightly. 

Bucky reaches up and drags his hand through Steve’s shower-damp hair, "When did you get in?"

"Little while ago," Steve murmurs, closing his eyes and turning his head to follow Bucky’s roaming fingers. "Didn’t think you were home."

Bucky sighs and drops his hand, reaching back toward the box and pulling out one of the many vague sketches of his mother. 

"Could you… if I describe her face, the details… everything—" 

"Yeah." Steve reaches out and wraps a hand around Bucky’s calf, squeezing. "Buck, I— of course, whenever you want."

"Do you remember her? What she looked like?"

Steve looks down at the drawing in Bucky’s hand and smiles. "Yeah, I do," he says quietly. 

Bucky nods, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He reaches back and picks up the iPod that’s still tucked away in the box. He turns the device off, unplugs the headphones and reaches for his phone instead, pulling up his music library and tapping until a song starts to play softly through the speakers they have all throughout the house. 

"This is the song I was listening to when I first remembered her face," Bucky explains, placing the sketch and iPod back into the box and setting the lid on top. 

Steve tilts his head, listening for a few seconds, " _April Showers_? I think I’ve heard you play this one a few times." He hums a few bars and while Bucky looks at him with a grin. 

"I never said anything." Bucky shrugs. "Like with Nat and the drawing that night, I just—" 

"Buck…" Steve links their hands together. "I meant what I said — you don’t owe your memories to anyone. That includes me."

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand. "How about now?"

Steve’s eyebrows go up, but he’s nodding, already getting up from the floor to get a sketchbook and pencil from the closet. 

\---

"I am definitely dead," Sam moans from the floor beside the sofa. 

Clint tilts his head back, looking Sam over and then looks forward again, unimpressed. "That seems dramatic."

Bucky nods. "Said the same thing last time," he shovels more pulled pork into his mouth. "Warned him last time, too."

"You’re not supposed to be able to beat me at my own food," Sam argues into the carpet.

"Dude, he has Super Soldier metabolism," Clint points his fork at Bucky, who raises his eyebrows and nods in agreement. 

"I keep tellin’ him."

"Swallow your food," Natasha orders, scooping up a stack of plates from the table and bringing them into the kitchen. 

"What are we listening to?" Clint asks, head tilted up toward the speakers. 

" _Sam’s Pulled Pork_ playlist," Bucky mumbles around another heaping forkful.

Clint turns to look down at Sam again. "You have a playlist for pulled pork?"

"No," Sam laughs, "Barnes has a playlist for when I make pulled pork."

Bucky simply nods, eyes not leaving his plate. Clint shrugs and takes it for what it is. 

"I’m not on dish duty this time," Sam says, pointing a finger at Natasha when she comes back into the room and stops in front of him. He plants his face back onto the floor and mutters, "I cooked."

"I know," she sighs, "We all did. I even made dessert."

Sam lifts his head up, a hopeful smile on his face, "Dessert?"

"The dead don’t eat dessert," Natasha replies.

Sam frowns. "That’s just cruel."

Natasha smirks and steps over him. "Barton," she says, dropping onto the sofa beside Bucky. "You’ve contributed nothing. You’re on dish duty."

Clint looks profoundly confused.

"Rogers!" Natasha calls out, "Get out of the kitchen. Stop cleaning up. It’s Clint’s job."

"Who makes these rules?" Bucky asks.

Natasha sets her gaze on him and raises an eyebrow. 

Bucky holds up both hands and shakes his head as Steve comes padding out of the kitchen making a similar gesture. 

"Did you just bring me here to do the dishes?" Clint asks.

Natasha swings her finger in a gesture that clearly means get up now or regret it later. Clint climbs over the back of the sofa, muttering to himself as he drags his feet into the kitchen. 

Steve settles into the spot Clint’s just vacated and stretches out so his legs rest across Natasha’s thighs and his feet end up in Bucky’s lap. They both turn and stare at him. Bucky smirks and slouches back, wrapping his left hand Steve’s right foot and massaging the arch with his thumb. Steve sighs and leans his head back with a smile.

Natasha looks back and forth between them and rolls her eyes, but smiles. 

"If either one of you start making sex noises, I will beat both your asses," Sam mumbles into the carpet.

"Did he say ‘eat’ or ‘beat’?" 

"Shut up, Rogers."

"Why do I have to do the dishes if there’s a dishwasher?" Clint shouts from the kitchen.

"Barton, if you stick a sauce-caked pan into my dishwasher without rinsing that shit out…!" Bucky’s lifts Steve’s feet and drops them back onto the cushion, heading into the kitchen to make sure Clint isn’t going to cost them a dishwasher repair. 

Steve pulls his feet back enough so that they rest against Natasha’s thigh and wriggles his toes. She lifts an eyebrow at him, then shakes her head and wraps her hands around his right foot, digging in hard with both thumbs. Steve winces with pleasure, locking his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

The room goes mostly quiet for a bit. With Bucky’s playlist having already cycled through, there’s just the sound of water running in the kitchen and the occasional bit of Clint and Bucky’s conversation trailing out. 

Sam eventually starts snoring. Roscoe meanders in and circles around him a few times, sniffing at his face and licking his hand before sprawling out pressed against his side. 

Steve’s just starting to doze when Natasha’s fingers slow and she leans forward. "Who’s that?"

"Hmm?" Steve shakes his head and looks around, following Natasha’s sight line to the mantel.

She nods toward the framed drawing, not taking her eyes away. "The woman in your drawing — it’s your drawing, right? She looks… there’s something familiar."

Steve straightens up in his seat, pulling his legs up and nodding. "Yeah, um," he clears his throat, "Yeah, it’s one of mine. She’s um— She’s—"

"My mother," Bucky says quietly. He smiles and he returns to his seat on the sofa, pulls Steve’s feet back into his lap and pinches his big toe. "I don’t have any photographs, so— "

"You look like her," Natasha observes.

Bucky looks up at the portrait and grins. 

\---

Sarah Rogers’s portrait is the next one to be placed on the mantel. Steve doesn’t have photos of his mother, either, and Bucky insists it’s only right that both of their mothers should be there. The collection of framed drawings continues to grow, and includes memories both old and new; Bucky’s sister sitting on his father’s lap, Natasha and Clint laughing, Bucky with Roscoe draped over his shoulders, Steve, Bucky and the Commandos with their arms slung around one-another and Peggy Carter, a hand on her hip and a smirk on her lips dead center.

The team gets used to Steve always trotting out his sketchbook, or Bucky snapping photos that might turn into sketches later on, they roll their eyes and joke about whether or not they’re worthy of "Making the Mantel," but any time one of them is visiting, the first thing they do is check to see if there are any new additions. 

Steve does a really great Avengers group sketch — Bucky’s probably more proud of it than Steve is — it captures everyone’s personalities perfectly and it’s so much better than the ridiculous press crap that’s always out there. It quickly becomes the team favorite for all, with the exception of Tony, since every time he visits, Steve swaps the real version out for one where Tony is a stick figure with a goatee. Everyone tells him that Steve’s line work is flawless. 

Aside from the one of his parents dancing, Bucky still keeps the original sketches tucked away in their box with his iPod — a sort of time capsule for part of his recovery. Some more of the old music makes its way over into his current collection, and brings a quiet smile to Steve’s lips when he hears it echo through the house. 

They keep building new playlists for each other — _Golden Oldies_ , _Bleaching the Bathroom_ , _Steve’s Fall Favorites_ , _Your Face When You Draw_ , _Walks with Roscoe_ — it’s a growing collection.

\---

"We don’t have one of us," Bucky notes on a quiet Saturday morning. 

Steve looks up from his coffee, following Bucky’s sightline to the mantelpiece. His brow furrows. 

"I just realized… We don’t have any of just you and I."

"Are you sure?" Steve gets up and walks over to inspect the frames.

Bucky presses up against his back, arms snaking around his waist, "Don’t trust my eyesight? Pretty sure I’m an expert marksman."

Steve reaches up and ruffles Bucky’s hair. "Would you wanna— " Steve cuts himself off with a laugh, wave of his hand, shaking his head. "Too corny. Never mind." 

"Pretty sure I can handle it," Bucky says, chin against Steve’s shoulder. He squeezes Steve’s waist. "Tell me."

\---

They set the tripod up in the front yard and bring Roscoe out to the stoop with them. The hardest part is getting her to sit still. Every time she lays down, they pose, hit the remote and two seconds later she’s sitting back up again, looking back at them with her tongue lolling out and tail swishing behind her. After more than twenty attempts, their favorite photo winds up being the one where they finally just gave up.

Steve shades in the details with care — his fingers curled at the back of Bucky’s head, Bucky pulling Steve in by his t-shirt and kissing him, both of them laughing into it, each of them with one hand on Roscoe’s chest to hold her in place while she ogles back at them. 

Their family portrait goes in the center of the mantelpiece, and neither one of them is able pass by it without smiling. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://sheisraging.tumblr.com) and be amazed at how many photos of Chris Evans I can reblog in one week!


End file.
